


Like a Storm, Like a Flood

by valdomarx (cptxrogers)



Series: Octoberfest fics [13]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, kiss in the rain, romcom cliches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26997379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptxrogers/pseuds/valdomarx
Summary: Jaskier is leaving for the winter, and Geralt can't bear the thought of not seeing him for months.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Octoberfest fics [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956754
Comments: 16
Kudos: 376





	Like a Storm, Like a Flood

**Author's Note:**

> Octoberfest romcom tropes day 13: kiss in the rain

Kaedwen is always cold. Even when Geralt visits in the summertime, a chill wind carries from the mountains and the air is crisp and sharp. This close to winter, the weather turns even more bitter and the skies hang heavy and grey over the sharp lines of the land.

The day hangs heavy on Geralt as well. Having travelled this far north in company, it’s time for Jaskier to return to Oxenfurt while he travels on to Kaer Morhen. This is part of their pattern, separating each winter to rest and revive. But this year the impending break weighs on him more than it has done previously. The thought of spending months without seeing Jaskier or hearing him prattle about nothing makes his chest ache for reasons he doesn’t fully understand.

The rain falls from the sky in thick sheets, pounding the mud in fat droplets which hit with a pattering of plump thuds, and for their last night together they splurge on the luxury of a dry roof over their heads.

They stay at an inn, homey and snug. The ale is passable and the food is good, even, but it could be the driest crackers and he’d still enjoy sharing a final meal together. Their fingers brush as they split bread, and sparks dance along Geralt’s skin. Jaskier leans into him, knocking their shoulders together when he teases him, and the press of his body is warm and compelling. 

Jaskier’s eyes sparkle as he spins tales about the adventures awaiting him at the university and they light up as he imagines out loud how the great witcher fortress of Kaer Morhen must appear, tucked away in the mountains. When he pauses to take a swing of ale, his tongue darts out to wet his lips and Geralt stares at the movement, transfixed.

When they retire, they curl close together in the single bed that has become their preference, if only to save on expenses. Jaskier snakes an arm around his waist and he puts an arm around his shoulders, feeling the gentle rhythm of his heart beating in a now-familiar pattern. Jaskier’s hair smells like lavender oil and dust from the road, and Geralt tries to memorise its scent.

The rain is still falling in the morning, casting a grey light over their breakfast. The splish-splash of the raindrops seem to be marking the seconds until they separate, until Geralt is alone again without colour and song and smiles. He is subdued as they eat, but Jaskier fills the silence with nervous excitement.

It’s too bad he’ll never see Kaer Morhen, Jaskier says, because it would be such fine material for songs. And how he’d love to meet the other witchers, to learn from them too. And his teaching is shaping up to be frightening dull, in truth. And - here he pauses, and his face softens - he will miss _this_. He waves his hand in a general indication of the inn, the Path, the big wide world outside the university bounds.

Geralt nods along, outwardly placid but internally absorbed in his own thoughts of isolation, sad and adrift. Jaskier stops talking eventually, his shoulders slump, and he sighs.

“I suppose this is where we part then,” he says, picking at the wood of the table with his fingernail. “I should get going.”

Geralt grunts, and he can hardly bear to look at him, to see what he wants walking away once again. “See you next spring,” he manages, and it comes out sounding rough and dismissive.

Jaskier’s face pinches but he nods and collects his bags. He’s getting up to leave when he stops and lays one hand on Geralt’s shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze. “Stay safe, my dearest,” he says, voice soft.

Geralt watches him walk away with blood pounding in his ears. _My dearest_. The way Jaskier often refers to him. _Darling. My sweet. Dear heart. My witcher. Mine, mine, mine._

The inn door swings shut behind Jaskier and something clicks into place in Geralt’s head. All the times Jaskier has cared for him, has bandaged his wounds with gentle hands and washed his hair with clever fingers. The way he smiles the moment he sees Geralt, every time, even if they‘ve only been apart a few hours. The longing in his voice when he talks about witchers retiring, about the two of them getting away for a while, about finding a place they could just _be._

He has to do something. He has to do something right now.

He jumps up from the table, not even stopping to grab his swords. He hears the innkeeper yelling about the bill as he tears through the room but he doesn’t stop to think about it, throwing open the door to the thundering rain outside.

There, just about to disappear round a corner, is a blur of bright teal and deep forest green, an outline he‘d know anywhere. “Jaskier!” he yells, and his voice barely carries through the downpour. “Jaskier!”

Jaskier stops and turns, his face pulled into wide-eyed surprise, and in a few quick strides Geralt has caught up to him. The rain pelts down, making his hair stick to his forehead, and Geralt carefully brushes it away from his face. Softly, reverently, he moves to cup his cheek, his skin warm with blush beneath his hand. 

He leans into the touch, and Geralt knows what he has to do. “Jaskier,” he says again, like it’s the only thing that matters. He tilts his chin up, and Jaskier lets himself be led. He leans in, barely a breath between their lips. 

He hesitates for just a moment, overthinking as usual, but Jaskier suffers no such uncertainty. He closes the distance and kisses him with unspeakable tenderness. Geralt feels as if light and heat are radiating out from where they meet, the joining of their lips drowning out the sensation of the rain and banishing every last trace of the cold.

He’s shaking by the time they pull apart, but there’s one more thing he needs to do. “Come with me,” he says in one breathless rush. “To Kaer Morhen. I can’t bear to be without you. Come with me.”

Jaskier throws his arms around his neck and pulls him close. “Of course I will,” he says, hands grasping on Geralt’s shoulders like he’s desperate to hold him forever. “Anything for you.”


End file.
